She was crouched on the floor of her old room, Tristan’s room, amid the rushes. Sinking back on her heels, she blinked slowly and tried to recall how she’d come to be there. Several minutes’ reflection brought no memory. Her hands hurt. She looked down at them and found them clenching Tristan’s shredded shirt. They were bleeding and bruised. Releasing her stranglehold on the garment, her glance fell on traces of red on the floor. She must have pounded her fists there. Her eyes were swollen and burned. Her hair had knotted in front of her face. She dropped the shirt and made halfhearted brushing movements at the tangles. She must have been weeping, for her face, throat, and the neck of her gown were damp. Vaguely she wondered how long she’d been crying. Glancing out a window, she found that daylight still reigned. Her legs cramped, so she got to her feet slowly, like an old crone. All the muscles in her arms and legs ached, as if she’d contracted an ague, and her mind ached as well.
